


Eggs

by flaubertienne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 09:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18547381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flaubertienne/pseuds/flaubertienne
Summary: George Weasley has the same breakfast every morning-- eggs.





	Eggs

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism welcomed!

Two people sit, facing each other, on the dining table. The flower on the vase- a dehydrated camillia stained rusty brown from thirst, cowers in the soft spring light. Outside the glass window is a pretty shade of green, a field that stretches longingly towards the Helios’ countenance. 

The fork rests in my left hand and the knife rests in my right. The eggs lounge haphazardly on the chipped porcelain plate, a courtesan beckoning a shy, inexperienced boy. You sit opposite me, your fork in your right hand and the knife in your left.

I feed the egg into my mouth.

/

A fly hovers over a pomegranate fruit, its spilt seeds and red blood holding the promise of sweet, rotten summer. It feeds on the carnage as a larger vulture might over flayed prey- unabashed, primal, and greedy.

The mirror above twists, catching splinters of white shards that illuminates the splash of red, catching the fly in flagrante. It shirks away at the sudden spotlight, but returns almost immediately when the wind changes its direction again.

/

Mum worries about me sometimes. She is angry at me and at you for not speaking. It scares her, she says, when I sit at the table with two set of cutlery and two plates

With a snap of her fingers she cracks the egg into the pan: the translucent gel hardens into a solid white, clotting like the scar that you gave me when we were three and in the garden, swinging bats against hyperactive bludgers in the still summer air.

/

There is a mirror that hangs in the garden, to ward off the crows and birds and worms that feast on the open heart of a split pomegranate plant. It is a simple mirror, with no frame nor embellishment. It hangs atop the stretch of green, and twirls when a soft breeze cuts through the air.

When the sun shines bright enough and the wind blows just right, I think I see your laugh.

/

Some days there are three points on the fork. Other days there are four. Sometimes three and a half.

The knife that I hold becomes blunt with each drag across the old porcelain plate, making sounds that Mum begs me to stop making. The knife returns to its dutiful place by the plate, but the symphony still cuts through the air like a stinging, silent slap. 

The yolk of the egg pops as it sizzles on the pan, leaving a trail of yellow.

/

I sit by the table again. Mum has gone out and it just just you and me. It is breakfast time and there are two sets of cutlery and two plates, but one is empty and lays untouched. Your knife and fork becomes cold to the touch. Sometimes there are two seasons in this place- summer outside and winter inside. My egg solidifies into a rocky mess of white and yellow, hardened daisies that no longer bloom in this chill.

The cloud passes over the window and I’m alone.

/

The pomegranate fruit decomposes, inviting more flies to its gouged heart. The seeds are nearly gone, and what is left is its open shell- a flimsy, stick, red head that barely supports itself.

There is a crack across the mirror.


End file.
